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letra de a lesson in skinning goats;_or_a murmur within the breeze - a band of buriers

keep calm and make the logo bigger across the sn-ggering face of your un-appointed spokesman. go ahead get even. dragged to a dead end you strike me down blame the parents, designer watches or broken handbag replicas. what a stench. protective hands placed on the small of very awkward arching backs in very black alcoves – throw me a ruffled plumage – come along and heart me
burn these ventricles pulled from my chest and dressed in a ridiculous, photographic, super sl1ck scratched scene

scratched montage. an end to envy. not need lantern. how to deal with isolation and how sweet in a deeply corporate way they tend to seem. lie down, scream and gaze listlessly as the emptiness reseeds into nothing. gentlemans’ feuds, public floggings all is true and clear as the moon is carved. it’s really all brandy and business cards, body language, who owns whom in dull order and full coverage copper wire like incandescence

or a lesson in skinning goats on the end of rotting piers and here’s to integrity belly flopping in a puddle of cr-ss taste, hypocrisy and hysteria. remember when we were made of flesh? and yes, an understated glamour of stretch glamour, come now detest brackets you and your cute dog-heart bark as cardboard arm reaches out from monitor screen wielding scalpel stumble hungry through the village home. sitting on a spit of reclaimed land, your son and heir prepare to let it get serious and who are you calling dummy? chin up and rally on await the intermission or leave the pantomime mayhem blend in masticate and make moves. for all the bruises traded in taverns a world of water awaits tethered to a moon made out of body parts, opalescent prints of past p-ssions beamed from badly broken overheads. fed forever on minced lung, sunday supplements, colour and war, tourist routes and fancy dress – let me be i’m busy! for the flowers of our hedgerows, sniffer dogs and all sacks of silicon. a stretch of utter black fitliest called discord and how we crave for honest graspings or ducking stool experimentation. place one’s head in one’s oven which way to stumble for comfort, stony-souled little city?

- a band of buriers

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